


pavlov's dog

by cheriecolas



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Discipline, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Puppy Play, two bros chillin in a handler-asset relationship five feet apart cuz theyre not gay!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 05:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14888381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheriecolas/pseuds/cheriecolas
Summary: ty:chuck getting pavlov’d to a little two-tone whistle that casey uses to get his attention and he realizes hes absolutely truly fucked when he hears it like. in public. and his heart starts racing and his hands get sweaty and hes like. i cant even pass this off as nervousness because of a mission oh God oh Why





	pavlov's dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iknewyoudunderstand (tylermblue)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tylermblue/gifts).



> **ty** : _chuck getting pavlov’d to a little two-tone whistle that casey uses to get his attention and he realizes hes absolutely truly fucked when he hears it like. in public. and his heart starts racing and his hands get sweaty and hes like. i cant even pass this off as nervousness because of a mission oh God oh Why_

He really hadn’t meant to become so accustomed to this. To _any_ of this, really. The Intersect; the government agents hovering over his shoulder and flitting in and out of the shadows; or the endless, infinite, _innumerable_ number of secrets he had to keep.

That also applied to Major John Casey.

His endless well of anger and masculinity seemed to be his most prominent attribute, rivaled only by his patriotism. Sometimes it almost seemed paradoxical. How could that brick wall incarnate be dedicated to protecting him, but also… not care? Like, _at all?_

He’d keep the rest of the wandering list of questions that spawned to himself for those nights when he couldn’t sleep. They were becoming more frequent, anyways, so he had the time.

So, when a sharp, two-toned whistle permeated his thoughts and jolted him out of them, that’s the moment he realized that he, Charles Irving Bartowski, was _whipped_.

 

* * *

 

 

John Casey had done his homework on his asset. He had been a brilliant mind in college before the _rogue_ had gotten him kicked out to “protect him” from being recruited into the government. _So much for that_. But, for all that brain, he had no brawn, and more concerningly, the attention of an active puppy. Seemed fitting, the way whenever he got reprimanded he pouted like a child and walked off with his tail between his legs. If he wanted to act like a dog, he’d get treated like one. _That’s_ where the whistle came into play.

It was the exact same tone he’d used on the Old English Sheepdog his family had when he was young-- _Same breed owned by both FDR and Paul McCartney. Good stuff_ \-- which only further proved his “literally a dog” point. It showed great promise on missions. If he couldn’t keep the damn kid in the car, he could at least keep him close. Casey also found out it worked outside the field. This may or may not have been one big study in what made the kid tick. Absolutely no science bullshit in this experiment, though. Yeah, yeah, _heliocentrism_ or whatever, but Major John Casey would only care about the sun when it could use a gun. Now, back to his boy.

 

* * *

 

Chuck glanced around himself to make sure no one was looking. With a gulp, he pressed his fingers into the skin of his neck, searching for the main artery. Even after all his time living under Ellie’s roof, he had absolutely _no_ clue what most medical terms meant, but he could say with health-professional certainty his heart was beating _far_ too fast. His hand slid back to rub his neck and hopefully massage a few stress knots, but stopped when Bartowski realized it was sweaty. He couldn’t hold back a small _“eugh!”_ as he quickly dragged his hands down his pants.

“Stupid, stupid, _stupid…!”_ Chuck pressed the now sweatless balls of his hands into his eyes until he saw stripes and sparks of color behind his eyelids. He didn’t get to blame his nerves on the intensity of a mission like he normally did, so why was his heart prepared to jump out of his chest? He wasn’t even exactly sure who he was trying to convince when he dodged the inevitable like that. Ellie? Morgan? Sarah? Casey? … _Himself?_

The asset exhaled heavily, trying to contain his squirming. His bigger handler was around _somewhere_ , and if he found out, Chuck would never hear the end of it.

_“What? Like getting lead around like a dog, Bartowski? Wanna see how far we can take it, kid? ‘Cause I’m not opposed...”_

It made him kind of wonder how bad that could _really_ be, and-- _OH FUCKING CHRIST_. The nerd smacked himself on the back of the neck, hoping it would snap him out of it.

“No boners at _work_ , idiot,” he muttered to himself through gritted teeth. He could feel the blush climb his neck to rest at his cheeks. There was _no way_ this was real. He couldn’t have actually just thought that. About his handler, no less! World’s Scariest Man Award winner five years running, John _Fucking_ Casey!

_Okay, okay, just deep breaths. You’re not gay for your government assigned handler. You don’t feel okay with the fact he uses a whistle to get your attention. You simply feel the way you do because you’re lonely, and because he’s there to protect you. It’s totally normal, and totally heterosexual. Just two guys being dudes._

“… Christ, you can’t even lie to _yourself_ effectively.” Chuck let his head fall onto the Nerd Herd desk in front of him with a resounding thunk. He had to wonder if Casey found all of his suffering _funny_ , because there was no other possible explanation for the hell he was being put through.

 

* * *

 

Well, he _did_ find it funny, but there was a method to his madness. There wasn’t normally, but John Casey could break the mold when he wanted to. He wanted to see _just_ how far Chuck would go and put up with in the name of his handler. Consider it a rite of passage, or some meaningful bullshit like that. If Chuck pussied out from the little things Casey tried, the nerd wasn’t ready to actually commit to what he was hoping for. He was _nothing_ like Sarah. He was no neat, gentle lover who took it slow and wasted time on all the frills.

_(This did not take into consideration the things Casey would not admit to, but knew deep down in the part of him that bled and ached and hungered that he would do if the man he found himself craving wanted them. This was what kept the unbreakable agent up at night, much like Chuck’s own wandering thoughts of how much he truly knew of the major.)_

Suddenly wishing he had his own goddamn _“get out of your stupid thoughts”_ whistle, the major put his thumb and pointer finger in mouth and let out his Chuck-call. When he had a pair of big brown eyes locked on him like he was the headlights to the kid’s deer, he tried not to smirk. With a sharp turn on his heel, Casey turned and walked into the display room of the Buy More. No words were _truly_ necessary to say _“Get the fuck in here, Bartowski, or your ass is grass”._ It was somewhat of a repertoire they’d built.

 

* * *

 

_IS THAT WHAT WE’RE CALLING THIS?_

The asset felt like he was swallowing his own tongue as he stood and scurried into the display room like a smacked puppy. He had to know. He so had to know. So much for the _“don’t ask, don’t tell”_ policy. Chuck could assume bringing that up would only get him killed faster, so he decided that when he got in there, he would say nothing. Maybe Casey would just let him go because he was so unused to silence from Chuck, that would scare him more than his talking? That was a good plan, right?

… He was going to die, not with a bang but by silent strangulation from a sexy man in the least sexy scenario possible. That’d be a novel story for the obituary. He hadn’t even realized he’d entered the room until there was a pair of fingers snapping in his face.

“Hey. Earth to Bartowski.” Casey didn’t seem particularly pleased with his mild dissociation, but then again, Casey was never particularly pleased with his asset to start.

“ _Agh_ \-- here and present!” Chuck rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Did I do something _wrong_ , officer? Because if not, I’ve got nerds to herd and computers to sell--!” He did his best to take quick backward steps toward the door before Casey could say anything, and--

“Hold it right there, dumbass.” His handler was one step ahead of him, and followed right behind to press his hand to the door over Bartowski’s head, keeping it closed behind him and effectively stuck with his back to the wall.

“Ah… aha… Got it. Staying right here, then!” He could hardly look Casey in the eye, deciding to focus instead on the tiny square of floor in the far too small space between their feet. It felt like just about every part of the man was invading his senses, and it was _not. Fucking. Helping_. Chuck could feel the heat rolling off of him and if he still had any real fight in him, he would argue _that_ was why he was blushing red. He figured he would have time to calm down and collect himself a little before the major tried anything, but life only confirmed it had far different plans when John Casey placed a finger beneath his chin and forced him to make eye contact.

 

* * *

 

“So, pup.” Casey couldn’t hold back a chuckle when an argument flashed in Chuck’s eyes, but died as quickly as it came. _No, kid. Fight. I like it more than you know._ “Are you going to tell me what’s going on in that fuckin’ nerd head of yours, or am I going to have to guess until your eyes do that little _thing_ that lets me know I’m right on target, hm?” Chuck tried to push away, but Casey placed a hand on his chest and steered him right back with a small grunt. _Negatory_.

 

* * *

 

Bartowski gulped and looked into his handler’s eyes. He had been pushed back firmly, but there was something about his _eyes_ that didn’t quite fit. As warm as it made the tops of his ears and the nape of his neck, he looked into those pure blue eyes as Casey _let him_ read them. It took some effort, but there, clear as day, was _“If you push back again, I’ll let you go, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”_ Trying his best to contain a shudder, -- though he was sure the older man felt it, as he inched closer almost protectively-- Chuck willed forth the obedience Casey had been training him with that whole time, and gave him a small nod. A _“go ahead”_ , an _“I trust you”_. All that pent up feeling drained out of Casey’s eyes, and he was pressed harder back against the wall. He would realize at some point that his legs were wrapped around the man’s waist, the buttons of his shirt were undone, and he was collecting a trail of hickeys that lead downward.

He could get used to playing puppy dog.

**Author's Note:**

> written out of a love-hate relationship for ty!!!!! i wouldn't have finished it if it weren't for _"mary finish whistle or i'll die"_ sent to me as many ways as possible!
> 
> aaand if we all don't unstan me for writing puppy play in 2018 i wanted to actually write what out where the end leads to... if you like it let me know so its not just ty battering me into it :p


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